Well. At least Wren sounds like herself again, or close enough to be faintly reassuring. For the first time since this whole fiasco began, the tension coiling his spine like a spring begins to bleed away.

Well, I was just going to hang them from his earlobes like pretty jewelry, but now that you mention it, I suppose wrists would work...

He wouldn't have said it aloud in front of the prisoners even on a routine day, but neither would he have felt vaguely guilty for thinking it like he does now. He lets himself into Benedict's cell and indicates, with curt, silent movements, that he should present his wrists. The balance of power has almost-but-not-quite restored itself, for which he is deeply relieved.